


Jump Ship

by levendis



Series: Prompt Fics [102]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Aliens Made Them Do It, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-18 17:15:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9395294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levendis/pseuds/levendis
Summary: Apocalyptic prophecies are really more of a suggestion than a command, if you think about it





	

**Author's Note:**

> for anon, who requested: could u write a fic where 12 has to marry nardole for some reason? asking for a friend thanks.

“The prophesies have spoken of this,” the woman said. “Two creatures, unified, descending from the stars.”

“The prophesies say these creatures will save us,” said the woman’s assistant.

“Through their love for each other,” the woman’s dog clarified.

The Doctor squinted. “Um.”

“We’re not - ” Nardole attempted, then bailed.

The Doctor looked at Nardole. Nardole shrugged.

“They have a lot of guns,” The Doctor whispered. “And this is a delicate area, temporally speaking. One mistake, the whole thing could unravel.”

“Might be better to just -”

“-Go with it, yes. For now.” The Doctor cleared his throat. “Love…saves all of us,” he said, a touch too theatrically.

The dog barked, and nudged Nardole’s leg, panting cheerfully. The wonan grinned with a great sense of relief, and led them to the city.

 

* * *

They were greeted at the gates with a mix of excitement and trepidation, which was apparently just how this culture reacted to tourists. The whole prophecy thing was kept hush-hush.

“You are beautiful, the two of you. We’ve waited so long.” The woman clasped them roughly on the shoulders and disappeared into a massive, gleaming skyscraper.

“Right-o,” Nardole said.

“I’m not ashamed to admit I have absolutely zero idea what’s happening,” the Doctor said. He shoved his sunglasses on, spinning around for a 360-degree scan.

“You probably are. Ashamed, I mean. Just a bit.”

“I’ve never even heard of this planet. And that’s rare, believe me. I’m assuming there’s a war, and the combination of technology and psychic woo is altogether too familiar, but the specifics…” He took the glasses off, and then immediately put them back on again. It was an awfully sunny day.

Nardole felt something push against his calves, and tried not to panic. Possibly he made a noise, but it was a reasonable, restrained one.

“You guys wanna party?” It was the dog from before.

“No,” the Doctor said distastefully.

“Absolutely yes,” Nardole said enthusiastically.

They turned away into a private huddle.

“Split up?”

“Makes sense.”

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“You realize,” Nardole said, savoring the moment right before being mildly but satisfyingly obnoxious. “That that means literally nothing at all?”

The Doctor made a rude gesture before hustling off after the woman. Not much of an athletic sort, that man. Not that Nardole could throw stones.

He turned back to the dog. “Let’s party hearty.”

 

* * *

They met up, afterwards, in a suitably public park. Nardole was possibly just a touch drunk, or high, or something. The Doctor looked excruciatingly sober.

“You find things?”

“I found things,” the Doctor confirmed. He frowned, like he was mad at himself for letting that phrase exit his mouth. “Did you - learn anything?”

“I took a pill and ate quite a lot of what I think was cake,” Nardole said. “Learn yes, learn relevant information: potentially no.”

 

A suitably public route to what was hopefully a somewhat more private penthouse suite. Nardole debated whether to take the Doctor’s hand, since they were apparently role-playing two people who would hold hands. The Doctor didn’t quite seem in the right place to be okay with physical contact, though, so he ultimately decided against it.

 

The elevator ride was mercifully swift. The Doctor jammed the keycard into the door like he meant it to hurt.

“I read the prophecies,” he said, trying to slam the automatic sliding door closed behind him. “They’re highly detailed. And I still can’t recall ever having heard about this planet but, oh, I can feel it. This place, this moment, us here now, it’s _important_.”

“D'you ever do anything that isn’t potentially universe-ending important?”

“Oh, shut it. Pay attention. You - ”

“Yes,” Nardole said, searching through his pockets for a handkerchief.

“Me.”

“Mmm,” Nardole grunted, and then blew his nose fiercely.

“Are meant to be in love,” the Doctor finished. Finger-quotes around ‘in love’. “In order for what’s meant to happen to happen.”

“Maybe it’s a platonic love,” Nardole said. He tucked the handkerchief back into his pocket and delicately removed his flower crown, setting it down on the kitchenette counter.

“The prophecies are highly detailed,” the Doctor said. He looked like he wanted to raise his eyebrows for emphasis but couldn’t quite muster the energy. He put his sunglasses on, to scan all the things that he could’ve just looked at normally if he wasn’t such a drama queen: a spacious, open-plan room with such highlights as ‘hopefully an electric kettle’ and ‘only one bed’.

“How detailed.”

“Explicitly so,” the Doctor replied tightly. He pulled a small grey rectangle out of his pocket and threw it in Nardole’s approximate direction.

Retrieved from the floor, with a disapproving look, the rectangle was a basic universal-standard (circa the 23rd century) data unit/entertainment provider/communicator/personal massage device. Nardole tapped on the icon labeled ‘PROPHECY’.

“It’s always up for interpretation,” Nardole said, scrolling down. “These things, there’s ambiguity and - oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Oh boy. Yeah. Wow. Okay. And you think this needs to happen, or ‘happen’-” Finger-quotes. “In order for time and space to not become irrevocably fucked.”

“A significant chance, yes.” The Doctor stalked over to the kitchenette, attempting to make sense of the maybe-kettle.

Nardole turned the rectangle off, and put it on the counter, and considered those facts. Or guesses. Or whatever.

“We don’t actually have to do those things. You can find a way around it, surely. This is real life, not one of those novels you think I don’t notice you reading.” He wandered away from the Doctor’s increasingly angry water-boiling adventures, and dropped gracelessly onto the bed, bouncing up and down.

The Doctor unfurled his eyebrows, abandoned the maybe not-kettle, and began pacing. “Of course I’ll find a way. I always do. Always doing the heavy lifting while you sit around and - squeak.”

Nardole stopped bouncing. “I do other things. Important things.”

“Right. You make the tea, how awful of me to forget.”

“I offer excellent advice, whether you listen to it or not. And moral support. And companionship. And-”

The Doctor stopped pacing and glared.

“I’m a bit of a pin in the side of the hot-air balloon that is your ego and self-pity,” Nardole said. He pantomimed the pricking action, in case the Doctor needed a visual reference to understand the metaphor.

The Doctor was still glaring, but in a slightly kinder way now. “Sorry. Right. I’m - you’d make a fine husband, I’m sure.” He quirked an extremely half-hearted smile, and resumed pacing.

“I have, actually,” Nardole said, mostly to himself. “Three times. So there.”

 

* * *

Nipping the whole 'do we share a bed’ question in the bud, the Doctor elected to stand in the corner while thinking very hard and turning a lightbulb socket into a radio. Nardole slept alone, inexplicably disappointed.

The next morning, they met with the prophets, and some government people, and also some military people. Nardole wasn’t sure if he grabbed the Doctor’s hand for false Husband Evidence or to keep him from bristling overmuch. The Doctor’s hand was warm and slightly, mildly unpleasantly, moist. Still nice, though.

And it was also nice, if immediately afterwards a little concerning, when the Doctor called him 'sweetie’. He looked like he wished he could reverse-vomit that back down his throat. Understandable.

“Find a different word,” Nardole whispered, still clinging to the Doctor’s slippery hand. “For example. I like when you call me 'baby’.”

The Doctor rolled his eyes, but Nardole could tell his heart wasn’t in it. And he didn’t pull his hand away, either.

 

* * *

“This is the plan, by the way,” the Doctor yelled.

“You had that horrifying 'I have a plan’ look, so I figured this was it,” Nardole yelled back.

Everything was just a bit on fire.

“If you have a better idea - ”

“No,” Nardole yelled, falling over an upturned desk. “No, this is fine.”

 

* * *

The TARDIS was not on fire and the TARDIS was uncharacteristically cool and it was home and safe and quiet.

“I can’t help but think that this would have been so much easier and less dangerous if you’d been willing to just kiss for a bit and fudge the rest,” Nardole said, patting out a small flame on his coat. Shame, he really loved this coat. Maybe the ship would be kind enough to shoot out a new one for him.

“ _I_ wasn’t willing?”

“Don’t pin this on me.” Nardole sent his ruined coat through the rubbish shoot, wishing it a fond farewell.

“You,” the Doctor said, and then stopped, like his brain hadn’t quite caught up with his mouth.

“Would have much rather done that than your catastrophe of a plan, yes.” Nardole paused, considered. “It’s more that I have an issue with being coerced to do things in front of people because the fabric of space/time is dissolving. In general, I think it’d be quite nice to kiss you, and additional activities. If you’re into that, I mean.”

The Doctor stared at him. “Okay,” he said. He rocked back and forth on his heels. “Right, okay.”

“Maybe later, that situation was a bit overwhelming and typically I prefer to take these things slowly.”

“Three times married, huh,” the Doctor said softly. He reached out and squeezed Nardole’s hand briefly before letting it drop. Louder: “I’ll go put the kettle on. Try not to break everything while I’m gone.”

Nardole closed his fist around the hopefully-just-sweat the Doctor had left on his skin. “I won’t do anything you wouldn’t do,” he said, and attempted a wink. It failed miserably but hopefully had the intended effect.

The Doctor made half a smile, like he wasn’t sure he should be doing it and in fact should probably shut it down as swiftly as possible, and wandered off towards where the kitchen might be.

Fourth time’s the charm. Nardole would make a good husband, fake or otherwise. He surreptitiously wiped his hand dry on his trousers and tried not to think too hard about it. Or him. Or them. Any of those.


End file.
